open windows, closed drapes

There is a dead bumblebee on the outside windowsill. Belly up, legs clutching nothing, peaceful look on its face. Yes, the latter may well be an exaggeration. Let’s just say it looks intact. I’ve got wasps living in the wall outside. Wonder if they had anything to do with this. Now I kind of want to write an aviation insect mystery novel. Detective Sting solves yet another crime.

I guess the biggest impact this whole Crash thing has had on my writing is that I am no longer scared of writing my emotions. Of being pretentious and colourful and soft and dreamy. It made me gag before. Not in others, of course, just in myself. You daft twat etc. Now it’s just…the way it is. And I look back on my film reviews on my other blog. And I still think there’s something there, I’m not a self-hating writer exclusively. It’s just so different from this…and I think happiness lies in the space between the two. The fast and the furious. Maybe more the fun and the fantastical. The elaborate and the emotional. And so on.

Soft. I am softer, maybe. Humble, for sure. More…respectful. I try to treat myself in the same way as I treat others. I am new. New in a couple of ways. I’m softer of body, that’s not a maybe. It bothers me and it doesn’t. I touch my softer arms and admire my fuller figure in the window reflection as the train pulls up and I’m fascinated and disgusted all at once. I spent so long shaping it. Toning. Two months and it’s soft and squishy. I’m trying to tell myself I’m cutting myself a break but I fear my gym days are over. I miss yoga. And I do miss running. I miss the rush and kick and push and sweat but I don’t miss the others. The routine. When I grow up and I get my room of my own in my house of colours and lavender, I want there to be space for a yoga mat. A desk for writing. A space for yoga. A view of the gardens. A smell of rosemary and lavender.

I can’t stop writing. It’s like I’ve finally cracked the code, I’ve finally found the source and now I’m tapping into it like never before, shamelessly, greedily, emotionally. It’s… fantastic. I don’t know if I’ve got anything to say but said it must be. And I look around and I don’t give a fuck about any of it except my written observations of whatever I’m focused on. Right now it’s me. Hopefully, soon, it will be other things – films, music. I haven’t lost momentum. I musn’t think that I have. I am just taking the time I need, the time I need to allow myself to take because I really, truly, utterly just want to dive back into everything head first. It would overload me and my head would explode. When my mother tried to express her fear of exactly that, her voice broke and I know it’s that serious. So I stop myself. Pause, at least.

I’m sleeping downstairs at the moment ‘cos it’s too hot on the mezzanine. It reminds me of the time where I would spend so much time on that daybed that I’d get sore muscles. It’s not that long ago. It feels like a lifetime ago. I know I’ve made ‘tremendous progress’, I know that, I’ve experienced it, I’ve seen myself from the outside looking in and now I’m back inside looking out but I remember it very clearly and vividly. It’s not looking at things with new eyes, I don’t understand that. It’s being NEW. Yeah, your eyes are new but so is your way of using those eyes, what you choose to look at, focus on.

Anxiety. Depression. I have to learn to live with them. I am, I think. My eyes are open. As good a start as any.


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